Some People Just Don't Learn
by Jay 2K Winger
Summary: If you don't pay a man for a job he's done, don't expect him to be polite. But some people just can't get that into their heads.


"Some People Just Don't Learn"

_A _Sin City _yarn by Jay 2K Winger_

Disclaimer: All things _Sin City_ are property of Frank Miller. They are used without permission, but for entertainment purposes only. The character of Mister Bones is property of myself, © 2003.

-Start-

The name of the bar was Kadie's. Not exactly one of the brightest spots in the Basin City nightlife, but it did good business amongst the disreputable crowds. This, of course, was exactly the way its patrons liked it. If a person who "smelled" of law enforcement set foot inside, they would most likely find themselves on the business end of a Long Cold Stare with Associated Threatening Movements. Oh, sure, Kadie's had rules against weaponry, but the owners had long ago learned it was nigh impossible to keep them out of the place. Unfortunately for said owners, they learned this fact shortly before they became the late owners of Kadie's. The current owners accepted the ugly facts as they were, but insisted -- with the support of their own heavily muscled (and often armed) guards -- that any violent disputes be conducted outside the premises.

One of the more frequent customers of the saloon preferred his solitude, unless he was up for a round of darts, and especially if said round of darts had monetary incentives. If you went by his appearances, he looked exactly liked the sort of person you wouldn't see inside the saloon, yet at the same time, looked exactly liked the sort of person you would see in this sort of place. He wore a black suit coat and slacks, which he always kept in immaculate condition whenever possible, with a gray dress shirt underneath, plus black loafers with gray socks. However, he also appeared somewhat slovenly, wearing no tie, and keeping the collar and cuffs of the shirt undone. The cuffs of the shirt extended past the ends of the coat's sleeves, and were folded back over the sleeves partway. His hair was cut short to grayish stubble, as was his beard, leaving his face covered with grayish five-o-clock shadow. What passed him off as one of the bar's "disreputable" lot, however, were the twin curving scars along the under-curve of his cheekbones, as well as his piercing, cold gray eyes. It also helped that he carried around at least two knives, one a sleek switchblade, the other larger and more suitable to gutting a person. This larger knife was headed with a grinning silver skull.

The customer in question called himself Mister Bones. Not that he ever claimed to be the best assassin in 'Sin City or anything, but he did claim to be "pretty bloody" good.

This particular night, he was finishing up a game of darts with some lout who had challenged him. Mister Bones calmly took a drink of his scotch, set it down, then picked up his last dart. He glanced at the board, and then flicked the dart almost negligently. The lout, who was known as Po' Fool amongst the nighttime crowd (he was a thief and gambler, and not very good at either), winced and groaned slightly as the dart landed in the bulls-eye with the other four. The assassin picked his scotch back up, swallowed the last mouthful of it, then held out his hand to his challenger. "Pay up," he said in his cockney-accented voice.

"Oh, come on, please!" Po' Fool pleaded. "I need that money to pay my loan shark!"

Mister Bones fixed him with a steely gaze. "Pay the 'ell up, ya soddin' bastard, or I'll feed ya's to the bloody sharks." This was one of those odd little quirks of the scar-faced assassin. While he could cuss a blue streak like nobody's business, he never, ever said the F-word.

With a miserable sigh, Po' Fool reached into his coat's inner pocket, pulling out a wad of cash and tossing it to Mister Bones. He caught it, double-counted the amount, and then pocketed it. He nodded to Po' Fool, then looked over to the barkeep. "'Nother one o' these, mate." Receiving another glass, he proceeded to go over to an empty booth. As he passed Po' Fool, Mister Bones told him, "Next time, old son, dun challenge a bloke to darts when 'e's the best soddin' knife-thrower in Sin City." He paused, and added, "Well, best _male_ knife-thrower anyway."

Mister Bones seated himself in his booth and picked up his little newspaper, reading it quietly as he drank his scotch. It never failed: he came to Kadie's and some upstart would bother him about something or other. At least this time it was only Po' Fool. Maybe now he could just get drunk in peace.

As was usually the case with beliefs like that, he was proven wrong. Less than half an hour after Po' Fool's challenge and defeat, a pair of people stepped up to the assassin's booth. Mister Bones glanced up. One was a short little man with a barcode-like tattoo under one eye. The other was a taller, muscular asshole. Both were dressed more or less conservatively for this part of Sin City, though the jagged triangle-like emblem on the back of their coats told everyone who these two worked for. For his part however, the assassin didn't care. He took a drink of his booze, then looked up at them. "Somefin I can do for you two?"

Barcode spoke quietly. "Aquinas Drumholdt would like to talk to you."

"Oh, 'e does, does 'e?" Mister Bones set his newspaper down, sitting back to look at them. "And what's the ol' Kraut wanna talk to me for?" Drumholdt was an underboss for Mr. Wallenquist (the only real "Kraut" in Sin City), and was notoriously stingy.

"He has a job for you," Barcode replied.

"Ah, hm." Another swig of scotch. "And does the ol' Kraut 'ave the effin' money 'e owes me?"

This seemed to set tattooed lackey back. "What?"

"Oh, 'e didn't mention that, did 'e? Drumholdt still owes me for the last job I did fer'm. So, until the ol' Kraut pays me the money 'e effin' owes me, I ain't talkin' to 'im."

The muscular asshole pushed forward and leaned forward, glowering. "It's not nice to displease Mr. Drumholdt," he growled.

There was a slight noise, and then the asshole found herself looking at the business end of Mister Bones' switchblade, which was currently pointed at his right pupil. "You," the assassin said, "want to back away, right soddin' quick." 

The meathead squinted at the blade, then looked into the flinty eyes of the assassin wielding it. "Is that toothpick supposed to intimidate me?"

"What, this?" Mister Bones looked at the switchblade briefly, almost as though surprised, then shook his head. "No, it's not. This one, 'owever..." Meathead became aware of a poking sensation below his abdomen. A downward glance showed that the large, skull-headed knife was currently pointed at a very intimate area.

"I think my colleague will just back off now," Barcode interjected hastily. He pulled on the Meathead's muscular upper arm and managed to seaparate the two. Mister Bones flicked his switchblade closed, and within moments had vanished into his sleeve somewhere. He laid the skull knife on the table, leaving his hand on it. "We'll, ah, just take that message on to Mr. Drumholdt then, shall we?" He smiled nervously, then nudged his partner. Meathead blinked once, glowering at Mister Bones still, then nodded as well. After a moment of hard looks between assassin and thugs, Barcode led his partner out of the saloon.

Mister Bones shook his head, getting up and putting away his knife, then going back over to the bar. "Oi, mate, 'nother one," he said, holding up his empty glass of scotch. He set the empty down and migrated over to the dartboard. He examined his quintuple bullseye, as though admiring his skill, then calmly turned and flicked a hand out. His switchblade quivered to a halt in the floor a short distance away, but unfortunately for Barcode, it did so via his left foot. The thug howled in pain, leaving his meathead partner to lunge for the assassin.

Mister Bones stepped aside, snagged a dart out of the board, then stabbed it into the lout's shoulder. Another howl of pain filled the air, causing the other patrons of Kadie's to turn to watch as the scar-faced killer yanked the dart back out, then drove his fist into the thug's stomach, sending him toppling back into Barcode, whose foot was still stuck to the floor by the switchblade. His partner's collision with him sent Barcode into a fresh wail of agony as he fell over, but the meathead -- who was hardy enough to need more to be incapacitated than just a minor stab wound -- got to his feet. Mister Bones stepped over and stabbed him in the shoulder with the dart again, not just once, but twice, then pivoted about and drove his foot into his abdomen. The lout made a loud grunting noise as the air was knocked out of him, crashing to a halt under a table.

Barcode struggled back to his feet, groaning as he looked down at his impaled foot. He looked up just as Mister Bones swung his fist into his nose. One wet crunch later, the thug was bleeding all over himself and clutching his broken proboscis. But before he could fall over, the assassin grabbed him by the collar and lifted him upright, almost to the point of further injuring the foot. "You go on back to the ol' Kraut and tell 'im that I dun wanna see 'im -- or anyone connected to 'im -- until 'e's paid me my soddin' money." With a quiet snarl, he threw Barcode onto his back, then bent down and retrieved his bloody switchblade. He turned to the bar, picked up his refilled scotch, then raised it to his lips. Barcode and Meathead stared at him in shock. For all the violence he'd just perpetrated, there wasn't a spot of blood on his suit. Mister Bones narrowed his eyes at them. "Piss," he growled, "off." And, in short order, they did, bleeding all the way.

"Hey, Bones!" The barkeep spoke up. "I hope you're planning to pay for cleaning and repair!"

The assassin shrugged. "Put it on me tab. And the name's Mister Bones." 

Two days later, Mister Bones was back in Kadie's, looking over a newspaper at the bar while nursing a scotch. The incident with the two Drumholdt thugs was all but forgotten. The sound thrashing of Po' Fool's hopes and dreams was likewise all but forgotten. Not so forgotten, however, that it surprised Mister Bones when the unlucky bastard spun him around on his barstool, eyes lit with desperation. "Give me my money back!" the thief hissed. Mister Bones just stared at him. Not seeing any concern, Po' Fool pulled back his coat, revealing a small pistol. A really old and cheap one, too. The assassin suspected that Po' Fool had more than likely stolen it from someone. Judging by the age of the weapon, the lout had probably done the original owner a favor by stealing it. "I'll shoot ya!" Po' Fool added unnecessarily.

"You dun wanna pull a bloody gun on me," Mister Bones whispered, leaning forward. "It really gets me effin' upset."

"I need that money!" Po' Fool whined. "They'll cut my throat if I don't give it to them!" 

"I'll cut your bloody froat if you pull that soddin' piece of shite on me," he retorted.

"Mithter Boneth," came a second voice. It sounded clogged and had a slight lisp. Swiveling the other way on his barstool, the assassin saw it was the two thugs sent by Aquinas Drumholdt again. Barcode had a large bandage over his squashed nose, and his two front teeth were chipped. Meathead was with him again, his left arm carried close to his body, still injured from the dart stabbings. "Aquinath Drumholdt thent uth again."

"Oh, for god's sake," Mister Bones snapped. "I told you--"

"Yeth, we know," Barcode interrupted. "But Mithter Drumholdt doethn't care. He wanth you to do a job for him."

"And I ain't gonna do anyfing for that ol' Kraut until 'e effin' pays me my bloody money!" roared Mister Bones, standing up, bowling over Po' Fool in the process. "So you go on back there, and tell that soddin' shit'ead to pay the 'ell up!"

For all the volume of this tirade, the other occupants of the saloon never blinked or turned around. To them, it seemed like the assassin was yelling at the top of his lungs about something every week. A few curious seedy-types looked up to see what the shout was about this week, then turned back to their drinks. Mister Bones glared at the two thugs a moment longer, then sat back on his barstool and picked up his scotch. He hadn't even brought it to his lips when he held the click of a gun being cocked behind him. "Mr. Drumholdt wants to see you now," Meathead snarled.

There was a quiet, deadly pause, during which Mister Bones drank his scotch in one gulp, then set the glass down. He stood up, reached over the bar, and picked up a fire extinguisher. Slinging it over his shoulder, he walked over to the main entrance, stepped outside, and set the can on the sidewalk. He walked back in and looked at the barkeep, "One of the really strong stuff, mate." He gave the two thugs a ghoulish, yellow-toothed smile as he lit a cigarette and took a drag, then picked up the tall glass of clear alcohol that the barkeep set down. Barcode, sensing something Really Bad was about to Happen, edged backward, limping as he did so. Meathead, for his part, lowered his gun, looking at Mister Bones like he was crazy.

"Ordering a drink when I've got a gun pointed at you? What, are you out of your mind?" the thug demanded.

Mister Bones flashed that smile again, said, "Probably," took a mouthful of alcohol, then spewed it into the face of Meathead. As he sputtered and cursed, the assassin took his cigarette and flicked it at him.

Instantly, the muscle-bound thug was in flames, screaming and flailing about. Barcode ducked and hid under a table, rapidly followed by Po' Fool. Mister Bones stepped aside as the flaming thug lurched out the door. Po' Fool and Barcode blinked in terror, right before the assassin dragged the other thug out from under the table. Barcode whimpered and cowered in the scar-faced killer's hands. "Please! Don't kill me! Think of my children!"

"I dun give a rat's bleedin' arse if you've got soddin' kids!" Mister Bones scowled. "Go back, and tell the Kraut to pay me my effing money!" Just to drive the point home, he punched Barcode in the nose. The broken nose. This time blood spurted all over not just Barcode, but Mister Bones' suit as well. The assassin looked down, then back up, face reddening.

Po' Fool finally uncovered his eyes a few minutes later, when Mister Bones stormed back into the saloon and swallowed the rest of the highly alcoholic drink in one gulp, then smashed the glass on the bartop. "Bloody hell!" he shouted, then sat back down on his barstool. He blinked, noticing Po' Fool under the table. "Oi, you're still 'ere?"

Within moments, Po' Fool was on his way Somewhere Else, and trying to get there much, much faster.

Two days later, Mister Bones was back in good spirits... and he was in a good mood, too. Kadie's was more or less empty, it being the middle of the week, and close to midday. He sat idly at an empty table, his news-sheet laid to one side, scotch on the other. He spread his hand on the table, flicked out his switchblade, and passed the time playing the 'Knife Game.' This game was played by taking the knife and bringing it down between the fingers in sequence, going back the other way, and repeating. The catch was you had to bring the blade as close as possible to the webbing of the fingers, without actually nicking yourself. You nicked yourself, you lost. The bar was filled with the quick, steady thok-thok-thok-thok sound of Mister Bones' knife impacting in the table.

The double doors at the entrance squeaked a bit as they were pushed open. Mister Bones glanced up, and sighed. It was Barcode again, accompanied by a fat man this time. The large man – who had a long mustache that reminded the hitman of a walrus – snarled, baring his teeth a bit, thick muscles bulging a bit as he followed the limping, bandaged flunky over to the assassin's table. The scar-faced killer didn't look up as he continued to play the Knife Game. Barcode's breath whistled through his twice-broken nose and chipped teeth as he spoke nervously. "Pleathe, Mithter Boneth, Aquinath Drumholdt really needth to thpeak with you."

"What about me bleeding money?" He asked, without breaking his concentration. 

"Pleathe," whimpered Barcode, "he'll negotiate over it if you'll talk with him..."

"Negotiate, my arse," Mister Bones interrupted. "He'll pay me my sodding money. The whole amount of it, and -- if I'm feelin' particularly pissed-off -- the interest, too. In blood, even."

"Nuts to this," Walrus-Guy suddenly said. He marched forward to lean on the table as the killer continued to thok-thok-thok the knife in and out of the table. "You're going to talk to Mr. Drumholdt, buddy, and you'll do it without arguing."

There was a quick whssssst-THUNK noise, followed by the deep, guttural bellows coming from Walrus, whose hand was now impaled through the middle by the switchblade. "I take it your shite-suckin' colleague's still in the 'ospital?" Mister Bones asked Barcode, who gaped at him. "I'm surprised you traded in for an inferior model 'ere with Walrus Boy." He nodded at the big thug, who reached for the handle of the knife to pull it out. The assassin grabbed the sides of his head, then slammed it down into the table, knocking him silly.

He turned to Barcode, who looked on the verge of making water in his pants. "Tell the Kraut to stop sendin' bloody idiots to try and intimidate me. Just tell him I want me sodding money. Nobody he sends is going to scare me, all right, mate? I've personally gone face-to-face with effing _Marv _and lived to tell about it, all right? Stop mucking around, or I'll break your nose again."

This time, Barcode escaped without further injury being inflicted by Mister Bones. Unfortunately, in his haste to escape, he tripped at the door and fell on his face, breaking his jaw. The assassin turned and regarded Walrus, who had regained consciousness, though he was gripping his impaled hand rather hard. After a moment's thought (helped by a swig from his scotch), he pulled the switchblade out of Walrus' hand. With a grunt, the thug braced both hands on the table and pulled himself into the chair. Wincing at his injury, Walrus sat down and looked at him.

"Did you really fight Marv?" the thug asked at last.

"'Course I did."

"And you didn't get killed? How'd that happen?"

Mister Bones flashed his yellow-toothed smile. "Oh, that's simple, mate. We both were fightin' over 'oo got to beat the shite out of a lout what was gettin' rough with Nancy. Total bloody maniac 'e may have been, 'e also 'ad a right mean sense o' fashion, and I like that." He laughed, swallowed the last of his scotch. "I _really_ like those coats 'e used to wear."

The next day, the saloon closed early, the hangers-about thrown out into the street, and most of the employees sent home for the night. Only the owner, her two burly bodyguards, and Mister Bones remained in the establishment. The assassin waited, picking dirt from under his fingernails with the tip of his skull-headed knife as he watched the doors. A few minutes passed before the door opened to admit a wide-bodied, dark-haired, and aging German-type and his own burly bodyguards. Also accompanying him was the luckless Barcode. The assassin looked at them all, then turned back to his knife and his hygiene.

The old man sat down. "Mister Bones!" Aquinas Drumholdt said jovially as he sat at the assassin's table. "Pleasure to see you again."

"Save it, ol' Kraut," the killer growled. "My money. Yes or no?" 

"I did want to talk to you about that," Drumholdt said. "I have this job for you..."

Mister Bones slammed his knife down on the table, leaning forward to glare at him. "Did the bloody idiot forget to tell you what I said every sodding time I sent him back to you? I am not going to do any jobs for you until you pay me for the last job I did for you!" 

Drumholdt blinked a bit. "I'm offering to pay you that money as a down payment for this next job--"

"Oh, bleeding Christ!" Mister Bones stood up. As he did so, the old man's bodyguards stepped forward, growling. He ignored them. "After this incredible blunder you sodding pulled, you're going to start paying me no less than seventy-five percent up front for any jobs I have to do for you."

"Seventy-five--!"

"You know what I'm bleeding capable of, ol' Kraut," snarled the assassin. He nodded at the two snarling bodyguards. "They do not effing intimidate me."

"But... seventy-five...?" 

"Your own fault, Aquinas," Mister Bones said. "If you 'adn't stiffed me on me bloody money, I wouldn't 'ave to impose these terms on you. Ain't nobody alive that stiffs Mister Bones twice."

The old man frowned slightly, leaning back in his chair. As if on cue, the two bodyguards stepped forward, cracking knuckles. "There aren't many people alive that try to bully Aquinas Drumholdt, either," the gangster remarked. "Fellas, give him a few more scars to go with the ones he's got."

"Are you trying to sodding intimidate me again?" Mister Bones said. As soon as he said this, Barcode quietly slinked away and hid behind the bar. Kadie and her guards likewise backed away from the impending mess.

Drumholdt smiled a shark smile. "Why, yes, I do believe I am, Mister Bones." The old man's bodyguards chuckled and started to flank the assassin.

Barcode said later that Mister Bones never seemed to move that quickly for all the violence that transpired. The assassin blocked the first lunge of the bodyguard on his left with his left arm, scooping up his knife with the other and plunging it in to the hilt in the thug's stomach. He thrust it upward, blood pouring out, even as he thrust his foot out and kicked the other bodyguard in the sternum. An unpleasant cracking noise accompanied this, leaving the second man gasping for air as Mister Bones pulled the knife out, then spun the first lout around with a left hook before swinging his knife up and around to open the man's throat, blood spraying out. Before the first even hit the floor, the scar-faced killer turned around, ducking under a sloppy bell-clap from the second bodyguard. His knife seemed to move in a circular motion between the bodyguard's legs, accompanied by an anguished howl of pain. Within seconds, the bodyguard collapsed on the floor in the rapidly spreading pool of blood. Barcode later found out that what the assassin had done was cut the femoral arteries in both the man's thighs -- length-wise, thus causing the bodyguard's entire blood supply to literally drop out of his body.

Aquinas Drumholdt started to stand up in alarm as Mister Bones finally turned to face him. "I really don't like killin' someone 'less I'm bein' paid for it, ol' Kraut, and just for the record, I really effing 'ate being intimidated." The killer threw the table aside and marched forward through the blood on the floor. Drumholdt scrambled to get up and back away, but all too quickly, Mister Bones was in front of him, bloody knife held before him. "Now, are you going to pay me my sodding money?"

The gangster nodded quickly. "Y-yes! B-Barcode!" he shouted. The flunky hurriedly limped over, trying -- and failing -- to stay out of the blood. Mister Bones was a tad surprised to find that the thug's name actually was Barcode. The hapless minion pulled a large bundle out of his coat, held it out. Mister Bones grabbed it, then embedded his knife in the arm of Drumholdt's chair as he took his switchblade out. Cutting the bundle open carefully, the assassin examined the cash inside critically, lips moving a bit as he did some mental arithmetic. Apparently deciding the amount was satisfactory, Mister Bones folded the bundle shut again and put it into an inner pocket of his suit coat. He flicked his switchblade shut, let it vanish into his sleeve, then pulled his knife free of the chair.

"Now, ol' Kraut, I'm not in the mood to listen to any bloody job offers today," the assassin said as he pulled a white handkerchief out of another coat pocket, starting to clean the blood off his hands. "So, I suggest we all just go 'ome, drink till we're all piss-drunk, sleep it off, and try again tomorrow. 'Sides, I expect Kadie 'ere'll wanna clean the place up after what just 'appened." Over at the bar, the barkeep nodded slowly in agreement with this statement.

"Ah... a fine idea," Drumholdt chuckled, somewhat nervously. "Ah... apologies about the delay in your payment."

"No worries," Mister Bones said as he tossed the bloody cloth aside. "I 'ope the job doesn't 'ave a strict timetable?"

"No, no," the gangster said. "Just a certain loser is exceptionally late on his debts to my organization and keeps managing to skip out of our reach." 

"'Ow late?"

"Oh, about eight months, now. Goes by the handle of Po' Fool. He keeps claiming some psychopath swindled him out of his money."

-End-

_Author's Note: I originally wrote this piece for a writing forum I belong to, back in August 2003. Mister Bones strikes me as the sort who would fit right in in Sin City. I changed one or two things here and there to fit it within the Sin City universe. —Jay 2K Winger, Oct. 19, 2005._


End file.
